The Miraluka and the Mask
by CortessaBlatt
Summary: ExileVisas. Beware of angst. What's beneath a Miraluka's hood? Is it worth finding out?


**The Miraluka and the Mask**

_Exile/Visas. Beware of angst monkeys._

**Rated PG13 **– Swearing, violent references, sexual references, the general. Hmm.

**Disclaimer: **Had a blond moment. Almost typed in the rating twice.

**The Miraluka and the Mask**

He always lay awake afterwards, listening to the gentle, unobtrusive noises of the ship. He could hear the others, whispering cautiously outside the door, the rustle of fabric as they went to bed, trying to be silent so that they wouldn't wake him; he could hear them in the main hold, eating dinner or arguing over pointless things like memory wipes and blaster techniques; he could hear them walk down the halls in patrol, and he could hear the faint hum of the hyperdrive late at night between the occasional beeps and whirs from the general diagnostic runs.

But above it all, it was her that swallowed his senses late at night.

Her breathing, her heartbeat, roaring smoothly over his mind and back, lulling him, though it also invigorated him so that he could not sleep. He could taste her serenity, the deep calmness that only came in slumber, and knew that if she realized she was driving him crazy, she would stop. Oh, but he loved it, how she drove him crazy. Her body… was perfect, in every respect. He knew it was wrong, to think of such things; she could always feel Mira's eyes on him, accusing him, because she knew that, late at night, while the sky was at its blackest pitch, he would memorize her every curve, every firm muscle that could be seen rippling with exertion in battle… and other strenuous activities. How lovely her body was… if only he could see… her face… She was always odd in the respect that, no matter where, no matter what circumstances, she always wore that strange headdress, and refused to let him remove it. Even in their nightly escapades, she would not allow him to see the rest of her face, or her hair. He always wondered what color her hair was – somehow the idea that it was black flickered over his senses, unreachable but still there.

He wanted to take it off. It was like a burning urge that threatened to overwhelm him. How would she know, laying asleep beside him, if he just reached out and… pulled… But she trusted him. He knew she trusted him. If he took it off, she would never forgive him if she found out, and he knew, somehow, that she _would_ find out.

It made him feel a little betrayed in that way. She loved him enough to fight for him, to sleep beside him, to die for him, and yet she would not allow him to see her face! It drove him absolutely mad, and it was the one thing he could do without about her.

She stirred; he knew she was waking when her round, dark red mouth moved and her breath quickened. He propped himself up on his elbow, watching her as the first beginnings of movement shot through her, starting with her legs, which straightened and then bent again. Her arms were next, stretching above her head, and then her back, arching upwards gracefully. Her joints popped audibly and she sighed, finally sitting up and adjusting her headdress. She turned her face to him and offered him a warm smile.

"Good morning," she mumbled.

"Hey," he replied, raising a hand and pressing it to her cheek before moving to where her head met her neck. He lost his fingers in the beginning shadow of her headdress and she clucked disapprovingly, slowly gripping his wrist and removing his hand to instead place it on her knee.

"No, no, no," she said. He smiled weakly and she only shook her head.

"But why?" he asked, drumming his fingers on her knee.

She shifted her leg in his hand, battling back a smile. "That I cannot tell you," she murmured. "You may ask Kreia, and she may tell you, but I will not." She paused. "Morning has broken – the others will be expecting us."

"They know," he said, sliding his hand upwards, from her knee to her thigh. Her skin was so exposed and pale; she hid nothing from the world, despite her usual modesty. After she had forgotten to leave his room one night, she had found no reason to hide any longer. And now her things, her few possessions that had once lay on the foot of her bed, now sat on a shelf above his bunk. No one asked any questions, and they hid from no one. They shared his bunk. Now, he reached above her head to find his clothes, and he hissed in her ear. "They know, Visas. I don't now why…" His hand found her hip. She heaved a heavy sigh, determinedly refusing to face him. "… why do you do this?"

"It's for your own peace of mind, not mine, Varlo," she told him. "I don't see why you are so insistent –"

His grip tightened on the shelf ledge and his expression grew taut. "You know why, don't pretend you don't," he said in a husky voice; the voice that only grew quiet when he was angry or tired, and now it was so soft it rung in his throat.

She looked at him and shook her head. "No," she said.

He violently pulled his robes from the shelf and lost his fingers in his hair. He swore softly. "Dammit. You…" He studied her face – or what he could see of it – and got angrier. "You mean that, after all of this, after all we've done… Every night, dammit. We sleep in this bed every night, and I've never seen your face."

"Varlo…"

"No! Why do you keep it from me? What… I… I almost feel like there isn't any honest trust, Visas. I can barely read you – it's like you don't want me to see you."

"I'm dressed in nothing!"

His face turned red. "That's not what I meant and you know it! You're not stupid!"

"You're shouting."

Suddenly his voice became a whisper, a hiss, a mere echo of his inner frustration. "Dammit."

"Can I not have a shred of privacy that is my own?" she demanded, her voice wavering on the tedious edge of emotion. She pursed her lips, frowning.

"Not when I hide nothing from you!" he hissed.

She winced and flinched as if he had slapped her. She shuddered and looked away, folding her arms over her naked breasts. She pivoted her body away from him. "It's for you, not for me," she whispered. "If you are going to treat it so, then… maybe we shouldn't."

He felt wounded then. He reached out and pressed his fingers to her shoulder, which she jerked away as if his touch scalded her.

"Hey," he said, his voice trembling as badly as his hand. He moved to recapture her, but she pressed herself against the wall to avoid him. "Hey… I… You know I didn't mean that…"

"I did," she replied in a clipped voice, and, in one smooth motion, swept over him and gathered her clothing. He watched her as she pulled on her clothes, her back turned to him the entire time. He felt guilty, as he watched her walk away, and he lost his face in his hands.

"Idiot."

------

When he came to the main hold that morning, Visas wouldn't even look at him. Mira and Handmaiden both fixed him with hard, unsympathetic stares; Sloe kept giving him knowing winks and dirty hand gestures; Bao-Dur was silent and awkward and could only mumble things that made little sense; Mandalore and Atton were more or less oblivious, much to Varlo's relief. At least he could speak to someone – anyone – and not get eaten alive. Kreia was nowhere in sight. When he asked, Atton told him that she was still meditating in her room.

"Like always," he added unhelpfully. "She's as good as dead in there. Be better off dead, the old bag of wrinkles…"

Varlo decided not to speak to Atton for the rest of the day. The man seemed edgy and irritated, as if something had deeply unsettled him. He downed more caffa than Varlo could have imagined, and a large number of cigarras were missing, though the blame probably went to Sloe, who seemed to have picked up chain-smoking.

So, Varlo, after trying several times to speak to Mandalore with no success, was left with no choice but to turn to Kreia. _Who would have thought, _he thought to himself as he headed to the bunk rooms, _that I'd be turning to Kreia of all people for relationship advice?_ Only, it wasn't so much relationship advice, as a question on the anatomy of Miralukas. How dirty that sounded. _Varlo, you naughty thing._

Kreia had sensed him coming, for the moment he stepped inside she shut the door, her milky eyes fixed on him. He awkwardly knelt before her, and she rested her wrists on her knees.

"What is it you want?" she asked in a conversational tone; somehow, she could sound bossy while being friendly… or was it friendly?

Varlo offered her a smile that she did not return. "I'm sure you're aware that Visas and I had an argument this morning," he said softly.

"Ah, yes," she said, drawing out the words in an obnoxiously smug way. Her mouth twitched. "The Miraluka. I am aware of your… relationship. There is no doubt about that. Tell me, have you let your oversized mouth get the better of you yet again?"

Varlo gritted his teeth and forced himself to nod. "_Yes_."

"I knew you would." She leaned back slightly, as if satisfied.

Varlo shifted uncomfortably on the hard floor, his gaze never leaving the old woman's face. He tensed and then shook his shoulders loose, and finally could stand the silence no longer. "What's underneath a Miraluka's hood?" he blurted.

She pretended to be surprised, arching her eyebrows with false interest. "Such questions," she said lazily, taking her time answering him. It took a good minute before she spoke again, and every moment made him feel more and more tense. "You should not ask if she does not want you to know. Secrets are unhealthy, but so are emotional entanglements, love, if you wish to call it so."

Varlo narrowed his eyes. "Just tell me," he said desperately. "What should I expect to see? Eyes? Like Mira's? Bao-Dur's? Yours? Milky or empty or normal but unseeing? Should I expect to see a blank canvas with no eyes at all, just skin? Or perhaps should I see sockets? Tell me! I… I can't stand it!"

"No," said Kreia after a long silence, drawing her tongue over her lips. She sounded pensive, almost as if she wasn't entirely there. "What you should expect to see… is not for eyes. It will… It would be painful; it should be avoided. She is wise to keep that headdress on… if the others were to see her, she would become unbearable to them. No, this, child, is a horror too great to unmask."

"Nothing about her can frighten me," Varlo hissed. "She is beautiful to me."

"And that is why she wears her hood," Kreia said. She flicked her stump in the direction of the door. "Be gone. I have not time for your foolish daydreams and idle wonderings. We have a mission, do we not?"

"We're getting there," Varlo snapped. "Dantooine is taking a long time to get to."

Her voice was clipped. "Then we should spend our extra time on something _productive_, child."

He didn't budge.

She pretended he was gone, saying nothing more and sitting motionless with her wrists on her knees. But he could see, from the way she pursed and worked her mouth, that she knew he was there and was displeased. Finally, she heaved a sigh of exasperation. "Be _gone_ with you! Do find something else to do!"

Thusly rejected, he rose awkwardly to his feet and slunk out.

------

Varlo wandered around the Ebon Hawk the rest of the day, harassing the droids, Sloe, and Mandalore while he could, and then going back to his room. The day wore on, boring and cold, because no one wanted to talk to him, so he just lay in bed, pretending she was beside him when she wasn't. Slowly, after several hours, the faint sound of her breathing eased into his ears, calming him, and he soon found himself falling asleep.

He was woken by her. She had attempted to curl up beside him, jarring him from his fragile slumber. He started, jerking into a sitting position, and she gazed up at him innocently. _Or can she gaze_? he wondered bitterly.

"Varlo…" she said softly. She reached out a hand. "I…"

"What?" he said coldly, shifting away from her in the same manner she had shifted away from him that morning.

"I'm sorry," she said after a moment. She bit her lower lip. "I… I do not want to fight. We have to stay together, stay strong. For the sake of our mission. And… because I love you."

"Well, that's comforting," he said icily, though she had already taken a great chunk out of his resolve. "You might have mentioned that this morning when you seemed so eager to turn away from me."

"Oh, Varlo, you know I didn't –"

"You wouldn't let me get away with that earlier; I'm not letting you get away with it now."

"Varlo…"

He shifted, feeling a large chip in his gut break loose. He fought for control – he wouldn't let her break him, after what she had said to him, the secrets she hid from him, while he was so dedicated, loyal, open, trusting… It hurt. He felt himself go hot, then cold, then hot again. She touched his cheek and he hissed with the pain, hastily turning his face away.

"Varlo, look at me," she murmured. She pressed her lips to his temple; and he was hers. He gasped as the last of his spite crumbled away inside of him.

It snapped. It didn't break, or crack, it just… snapped. Guilt and worry roiled furiously inside of him, engulfing him, so that his actions were swift, forceful, deep… and he was blind to it. He only wanted her, to lose himself in her, and resurface later, when the pain was dulled. "I'm sorry," he said, firmly grabbing her arm and pulling her into his lap. She nodded, allowing him to hold her, and she lazily drew circles on his forearm.

"It is alright," she said softly. "I know… I know you did not mean it," she mumbled. An embarrassed smile tugged at her features. "I think… it can be expected that we will argue from time to time. It is only natural."

He was too absorbed in kissing her to care about what she was saying. Her entire face, he covered with his mouth. Her forehead, though it was hidden behind her headdress, her cheeks, her nose, her lips. His breath rose heavy from him, filling the bunkroom with the noise. She breathed in unison, weathering through his actions, unresponsive. This only fueled his intentions, and finally she pushed him away.

"It is alright, Varlo, but stop," she said quietly. She shifted in his lap and rested her head on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. He rocked back and forth, desperately clinging to her. He needed her.

"I don't want to fight, never, never," he said. "It pains me too much."

"Varlo."

He moaned. "Don't say my name," he said, his voice muffled by the skin on her neck. "Please."

"I'm trying to talk to you," she said desperately, now struggling against his grip. She groaned, but finally managed to break free. "Listen. Will you listen?"

He gazed up at her blankly.

She sighed. "If that is as good an answer as anything…" she muttered, before she reached up into her hood and massaged her temples.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, pressing a hand to her hip and watching her. "I don't even know what color your hair is. Do… do you even have hair?"

She actually laughed. He smiled weakly as she sunk back on her heels and laughed, tilting her head back. She giggled for several minutes before she found calmness again, and even then she had to stifle the noise behind her hand.

"I was being serious," he said sulkily.

Still gasping for breath, she rested her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it comfortingly. "I know," she said. "I know."

"Visas?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm… sorry. For… shouting at you earlier," he mumbled.

"You already apologized," she told him. "I forgive you. But…" He swallowed loudly, looking away and frowning. There always was a 'but.' He didn't want things to be troubled, or complicated, but when she reached out and touched his hand he knew everything would be well. So he faced her, and nodded.

"Yes?"

"I think… I think it _is _time you see… you see me," she said uncertainly.

He blinked, feeling a strange feeling wash over him. Was it anxiousness? It felt awfully similar. "Oh, Visas, you would?" he breathed.

"But… I must warn you…" she mumbled, rising to her feet to pace back and forth in the small bunkroom. "You may not… you may not be prepared."

He stood with her. "I won't be afraid," he said. "Nothing about you can frighten me."

"I know," she groaned. "That is what I am afraid of." She shifted uneasily and faced him. "You won't expect what you see, and I only want… I only want you to promise that it won't change the way you see me."

"I love you," he told her. "Nothing will change that."

"Mm… but are you so sure?"

"You're hesitating," he said softly, reaching out to her. She recoiled.

"I… will do it," she said; her voice was barely above a whisper. Slowly, she reached up and slid her hands beneath her mask. He watched, breathless, as she, very, very slowly, as if to agonize him more, removed it.

He was stricken first by the mess of short auburn hair, curled around her ears and forehead but smothered by her headdress all day. Then her ears; peaked at the tips but not sharp-looking. He tried to see her face, which she held downwards, her eyes shut, so that all he could see was her lashes, and not what was behind them.

He realized with a start that he wasn't breathing. He forced himself to take a steadying breath, but it wasn't easy. "Visas…"

She lifted her face, but kept her eyes determinedly shut. He ran his fingers over her cheek, studying her. Her face was round, but he had known this. Her skin was pale from lack of exposure, but he knew this, too. Her brows were thin, gently arching downwards as she tried to pull her headdress back on.

"No," he said. "Let me see you."

"I can't," she gasped, trying to wriggle away. "I can't."

"Open your eyes," he told her, softly, warmly.

With what seemed like the utmost effort, she faced him and opened her eyes.

It sent him reeling backwards. He stumbled, and fell to the ground, swearing loudly. He forced himself to stare up at her, her beautiful face; except for those eyes… were they eyes? What greeted him struck him as sockets, empty black holes, but then, he noticed the tiny crimson gems, hidden far in the back, glinting out at him like two tiny drops of blood in a sea of black. Were they gems? Was it blood? Or her equivalent to eyes; what she saw through, or was she totally blind? He could see the ghosts swimming in those empty eyes, those… things… on her face… Voices, fresh and unwanted rose up in his head… the screams of children… the shriek of metal being torn from metal… the ring of blasterfire… the roar of fire… the hiss of ashes beneath soft feet…

And then, rising up to swallow him whole… silence.

Utter silence.

He gasped, losing his face in his hands. She knelt beside him; he could feel her arms go around him, but still he shuddered, trying desperately to push back the sickening emotions that churned up into his throat. She had pulled the headdress back on, but those eyes still stared at him, harsh, piercing, accusing…

"I'm sorry," she cried, and he felt her tears soaking through his clothing, though he could only stir faint detachment. "I'm sorry!"

He didn't do anything. She tried to rouse him, nudging him, holding him, petting back his dark hair, but nothing worked. He couldn't hear her… it was just silence… horrible silence threatening to break him and then eat him… Silence as thick as death. It was death.

"Varlo, please," she pleaded, her voice becoming high-pitched in her desperation. He realized that she had known – that was why she remained hidden. And he had foolishly harassed her, shouting at her for something she was only doing to defend him.

He fell back. He felt the edge of the bed press against his back, supporting him. He wanted to lay down. He wanted to go to sleep and shut it out. Shut out her begging, which was quiet, as if it was coming over a vast distance. He was vaguely aware of her hands against his face, frantically feeling him as if to wake him. He could faintly see her, with her face hidden again, and her mouth was twisted with something… anger, was it? Pain? Worry? Fear? Probably all… she almost certainly hated him for so foolishly pledging himself only to pull away at the sight of death…

Only… was it the sight of death? Or just the sense of it?

Slowly, things started coming back. He realized that she had given up, and now just lost her face in his chest with her arms wrapped tight around his middle, her legs tangled up in his own. He stared down at her, still feeling slightly numb, when he realized she was crying. Visas had been through a lot – she never cried.

It was amazing, how an ordeal so simple and small could cause such pain. All she had done… she had only removed a headdress, but somehow that caused too much grief to bear. They lay in each other's arms the entire night; they refused to look at anyone or say anything. And when night came, and he slowly drifted off, he was left with the image of her eyes, the cold silence, and the ashes of Katarr.

That is what lies inside a Miraluka's hood.

------

**Author's Notes: **Lost it at the end. This feels… dry. Flat. I like it, though, and I think I may redo it later. Took me a day, or so, not counting the time I spent musing. Muuussssiiing.

So yeah. I'm having a rough spot in _life,_ is all. It's got nothing to do with you guys, so don't worry. I just want you to know, that's why I'm slow and stuff. AND STUFF. Ignore this note. Just ignore it. Waaaaalk aawaaaaaaaay.

I need more Diet Coke.

And yes, I'm totally aware how lame it is that their names both start with "V." It was totally accidental and I didn't realize it until I started writing, and by then I was too lazy to delete the name from my dictionary bank. You'll have to live with it. Like how Cortessa and Carth start with "C." That was accidental to. I'm just lame that way. XD

Edit: Change of perspective near the end.


End file.
